In the long, merry march to Christmas, I guard against fa-la-fatigue. But against my own rules, I strapped on a helmet, boiled some water, gave myself a tetanus shot and infiltrated a mall. Someone I saw there got me thinking: Who is this paunchy, bearded chimney-slider we leave cookies out for?

I've seen the musical Claymation specials purporting to give a history of the jolly old elf. And everyone knows Santa Claus is more formally known as St. Nicholas or Kris Kristofferson.

But do we really know enough about this guy to allow him to commit a home invasion while we're asleep, conduct surveillance (does he have a warrant to investigate our goodness or badness?), kiss Mommy and fill our living rooms with suspicious packages?

The first thing I discovered in my research is that he shouldn't lay a finger on Mommy. St. Nicholas was a monk. Someone needs to break this to Mrs. Claus.

He was born in the third century in Turkey, somewhere near Myra, though she wasn't his mother. But that's pretty much all we know about him for sure. The rest is legend and Claymation.

For example, he is said to have given up his inheritance to roam the land helping the sick and the poor. According to History.com, he reportedly saved three impoverished sisters from "being sold into slavery or prostitution by their father"; Nicholas gave them dowries so they could be sold into marriage instead.

Dec. 6 is the feast day of St. Nicholas, held to be an auspicious day for getting married or making large purchases -- pretty much the same thing these days anyway.

Somehow, St. Nicholas was so beloved that affection for him survived the Renaissance, the Reformation and "The Year Without a Santa Claus."

This was smart marketing on his part. He got himself associated with really good causes, like children and sailors (who doesn't like children and sailors?), weddings and new cars. Look at St. Matthew, patron of accountants. Does he come in through your dryer vent on Tax Day and bring you an extension? No. And St. Fiacre, who watches over cab drivers. Who names their kid Fiacre? And when you think painful headsplitting earache, you think St. Polycarp.

Except you don't. I hear Polycarp and I think, "Many fish?"

St. Nicholas, on the other hand -- or St. Nick, inventor of the nickname -- is synonymous with laughter and magic and wonder and eggnog.

But it wasn't always that way in this country. We didn't start joining the Santa fan club until right around the time of the Revolution, when Dutch families in New York were throwing fabulous cocktail parties to commemorate his demise.

(And then praying to St. Fiacre afterward to get the guests home.)

In Dutch, St. Nicholas is Sint Nikolaas, and the nickname for him isn't Nick but Sinter Klaas.

So by the early 19th century, we almost had the name right, but the imagery still needed some work. And by "imagery" I mean "wardrobe." In accounts of that period, Sinter Klaas was accused of wearing a red vest, blue three-cornered hat and yellow stockings, an ensemble for which the most charitable explanation is colorblindness.

Elsewhere, he is described as wearing a broad-brimmed hat and -- remember, I am getting this from the History Channel Web site, not from a Terry Gilliam movie -- a "huge pair of Flemish trunk hose."

I don't know exactly what that looks like, but I don't think I'd want my kid sitting on the resulting lap.

Once we got friendly with Santa, he brought us gift-giving, Christmas shopping (ads started appearing in 1820), model Santas in stores to lure kiddies, live Santas in malls, and Salvation Army bell-ringers, with or without red hats and beards.

You could blame him for greedy rugrats and Wal-Mart stampedes and endless charity solicitation, but try not to lace a saint's cookies with melamine.

At best, he may go easy on you and leave you some of that clean coal. Don't make him get the trunk hose.